


QED

by antennapedia



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 16:51:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4968715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antennapedia/pseuds/antennapedia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm has some news.</p>
            </blockquote>





	QED

Jamie walked, shoulder to shoulder with Malcolm. Friday night, their usual night for a quiet drink or three or five. Their night out. Malcolm had summoned him out for it with a jerk of his chin at the door. Not talking much tonight, was old Malcolm.

"Come round to mine?" Jamie said. "I've got a bottle. Or we could go out and drink."

"Spend cash I don't have."

"What it's for."

"Look, don't much feel like it. Let's go to mine, make some dinner."

And go to bed, was the unstated sequel. Jamie looked up, caught Malcolm's look, nodded. Whatever the man wanted. He was in charge, as always. Smarter, faster, stronger, more desperate. Had more opinions, anyway.

Malcolm could cook, and sometimes even had the time to do so. Why he was the scrawniest thing Jamie knew was a mystery, because Jamie would eat all day non-stop if he could have Malcolm cook for him every day. But it wasn't an every-day thing. A couple of times a week, they'd go drinking and then go home and fuck. Never entirely sober, Malcolm was, when he let Jamie into his bed, and Jamie was okay with it. The man had yet to come to terms with himself. It was something that happened. He'd seen worse.

No drink tonight. Water or ginger beer or Fanta, those were his choices. Jamie took the water, set the kitchen table for two, and sat to watch Malcolm chop vegetables. The smell of oil and butter, of onions browning, of spices and tomatoes heating. Malcolm filled a pot with water. Pasta, then.

"Was a good week," Jamie said. "Sunday's story will be good."

"Needs some last edits. A wee bit of obscuring where that data came from."

"You liked that stunt with the screwdriver in the lock? Only works with shite that's as old as that was."

"You'd think the greedy bastards would keep things like that under real lock and key."

Jamie shook his head. "It's arrogance. They think nobody can touch them. That's until they've had the hide lashed off them by you. You and your writing."

"Doesn't do any fucking good. Nobody touches them. The sell-off of the national assets continues. I can write all the fucking stories I want. It's all just shit without power. Fuck!"

The water had gone on the boil. Malcolm cracked the pasta and threw it in, and for the next minutes he was too busy cooking to talk. Jamie watched him move. Malcolm in his shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled up to expose narrow wrists. Lovely hands, he had. A lovely slim body. It took him a while to relax enough to trust pleasure when it was offered, but once he'd yielded it was complete. He gave all of himself.

Probably why it took the drink to do it.

"There's news," Malcolm said, while he stirred the pot.

Jamie waited for it.

"Dewar needs a Media Director."

Hand slapped down on the table, making the forks jump. "You mean needed."

"Yeah."

"You meant it, then. Getting your hands dirty yourself."

"Been in politics since the moment I filed my first story. Everything's fucking politics."

"Politics is shit."

"Everything is shit. Quod fucking erat fucking demonstrandum."

"Fucking politician now. Well, congratulations."

"Thanks."

"Gon'ta buy a better suit than that? Maybe one that doesn't hang off you like a shroud off a famine victim."

"Fuck you."

"After dinner."

Malcolm stopped stirring the pasta and glared at him. He shook his head. Jamie drank his water. Water, fucking water, not even something sugary with fizz in it. No whiskey tonight. None of the water of life of his people. Was Malcolm saying that the fucking was going to stop? Was it that journalists could get buggered on the regular but politicians couldn't have boyfriends?

Malcolm said, "I'll buy a better suit once I've seen the checks into the bank."

"Lucky bastard."

"There's another thing." Jamie waited for it, watched Malcolm drain pasta. Eventually he said, "I'll be hiring staff."

"Staff."

"Going to need somebody I can trust." Malcolm's eyes flicked to Jamie and away.

"Understood."

"There's some, well, possibility they might want me doing media for the main party. Not straight away."

"Fucking London. Fucking English."

"Yeah."

Plates onto the table, sit together, eat. Jamie watched Malcolm shove pasta around his plate. He himself was beyond famished. He ate as rapidly as was compatible with the manners his mam had taught him. Date manners. Be on his best with this new touchy Malcolm who was moving on with his life.

Malcolm said, to his plate, "Would you come with me? In the eventuality."

Jamie considered his answer very carefully. Tempting, fuck yes, but he had to know what Malcolm wanted. Clearly. Now. If Malcolm himself even knew. "In what capacity?"

Fork down. Malcolm wasn't looking at him. "My assistant."

His assistant. Not his partner, not his boyfriend, not his friend.

Then Malcolm said, "I'm not ready to be on any fucking posters."

Jamie threw his fork at the table. "Nobody wants to be on fucking posters. What's that mean? How do you want me? Because if we're not fucking together I'm not fucking bothering. I'll stay up here and drink until I fucking forget the sound of your voice."

"Jamie. Fuck. You've got the wrong idea. I wouldn't-- of course we'd be together. What did you think I meant?"

"You said you didn't want to be a poster boy. What am I supposed to think?"

"Not-- not that. Wouldn't be a fucking scandal. I'm divorced. You're single. We can do what we want. I'm just not -- not ready to be, to be out. Fucked if I know why. Don't want it to be my defining characteristic."

Now Malcolm focused on his food and ate. Jamie watched him. Defining characteristic. Nobody would ever define Malcolm by anything but his writing. Or his swearing. Or his temper, his oh-so-carefully controlled temper, the rage that was only expressed in those words. When Malcolm felt let down. Betrayed. By people who ought to have done better. Politics was going to fucking eat Malcolm alive, even more than journalism had. There was no way he was going to do it alone.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, on those terms, in that capacity. Okay."

Malcolm's shoulders relaxed and he smiled. Briefly, but it was genuine.

Jamie said, "I can see the poster. Scrawny Scot takes a monster cock up the arse."

Malcolm shot him two fingers without hesitation. "Not yours then, you wee little man."

"See what you have to say about that later when you're on your back, boyo."


End file.
